


The Reluctant Brides

by elareine



Series: JayTim Week 2019 [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: /Argument, Alternate Universe - Regency, Banter, F/M, Family Shenanigans, Female Damian Wayne, Female Jason Todd, Humor, Love at First Sight, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 21:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/pseuds/elareine
Summary: “How are you not married?”“Some of us, Mister Drake, value our independence.”“And yet you take in my sister?”“For a month or so, and only to teach her what her family has failed to.”





	The Reluctant Brides

**Author's Note:**

> For JayTim-Month week five: No capes. 
> 
> I widened the age gap between Damia(n) and Tim for the purposes of this story. Also, everyone is vaguely English, but I didn't have time or inclination to britpick this, so... sorry about that. 
> 
> Many thanks to Reah22 who encouraged me to write this genderbend, came up with the names and had some of the best ideas.

“What in God’s name is happening?” Jo pushed her head out the window to see the road. 

“There seems to have been an accident, Ma’am,” Artemis said evenly. 

Jo frowned and opened the door, heedless of Bizza’s attempts to hold her back for propriety’s sake. The sight that greeted her wasn’t as dire as she had expected—the hansom appeared to have simply broken a wheel. 

With a sigh, she gathered her skirts and jumped out, walking over to the two figures standing beside the damaged carriage. They hadn’t noticed her yet; very likely due to the fight that they were engaged in. 

“I _told_ you not to use this old thing! It was evident that it would break at the first hint of a stone in the road.” The speaker was a young lady, maybe sixteen or seventeen at Jo’s guess. She was short, compact, and wearing what she probably thought was servant’s clothing.

“Well, I couldn’t very well use any of the bigger carriages, could I?” the young man next to her replied furiously. He was only a bit taller than the girl but carried himself well. “Don’t forget, I had to leave in a hurry because _you_ didn’t tell me about your hairbrained scheme!” 

“A scheme that would have worked very well if you hadn’t felt the need to swoop in like a white knight!” 

“It would’ve been a disaster—” 

“It _is_ a disaster!” The lady looked this close to stomping her foot. “I need to be in Bath by five o’clock, and I will never make it now!” 

Jo decided to use this moment to clear her throat. The two heads turned to her, startled. 

The boy recovered first. “Oh, I’m so sorry, we didn’t hear you stop!” 

The girl scowled, but added: “Our apologies.” 

Jo waved their contrition away. “No matter. Now, I assume you did not bring a replacement wheel, Mister. …?” 

“Jonathan Kent, at your service.” Hastily, he gave a bow, then looked at her contritely. “No, I’m afraid I forgot to equip the carriage properly.” 

“Understandable, the circumstances of your departure being rather… rushed.” 

Mister Kent nodded but didn’t add anything to explain himself. It appeared he wouldn’t rat his friend out. Jo approved.

“My name is Josephina Todd,” she introduced herself and looked at the girl in expectation.

The girl hesitated. “I… would prefer not to say.” 

Jo nodded equitably. “Are you two eloping?” 

“No!” — “No!” For once, the two were united in their vehemence.

“Good, because you would have been traveling the wrong way for that. Now, how about I give you two a lift to Bath? We might make it in time for your appointment.” 

The girl’s face brightened. “Oh, that would be perfect, thank you!” 

Mister Kent, however, didn’t seem too convinced. “Damia, I still think you shouldn’t—” 

Well, that anonymity had lasted long. Jo surmised that Mister Kent wasn’t exactly used to cloak-and-dagger operations, which was reassuring. 

“How about you tell me what appointment it is you’re trying to keep?” Jo smiled at Damia, doing her best to appear trustworthy. Not exactly something that came naturally to her. 

The glance the girl threw at Mister Kent (honestly, Jo couldn’t keep addressing someone so young with ‘Mister’) was venomous. Then her shoulders slumped. “I found an advertisement. A Lady Falcone wants potential companions to call on her before five o’clock today.” 

“Lady Sofia Falcone Gigante?” Jo asked. 

Damia nodded, looking a bit more eager now. “Yes. I don’t know much about her, but she is aristocracy, so she must be respectable.” Next to her, Jonathan groaned and promptly got an elbow in the side for his troubles. “And everything is better than—” Her mouth shut abruptly. 

For a long, long second Jo considered not becoming involved. Take Damia to Bath, maybe, and forget about it. She considered the young woman’s carriage, the defiant way she stood even in the mud at the side of a road. _I could’ve used someone to help me at that age._

“Lady Falcone is a most unpleasant person that burns through companions,” she found herself saying. “I wouldn’t advise that for anyone, let alone a young lady with no experience in being a companion. It is not a pretty job.” 

Damia’s shoulders slumped. Jonathan did his best to conceal his relief at the news and patted her arm consolingly. 

“I could hire you.” Jo trusted that even if Bizza heard her from inside the carriage, she would know that Jo wasn’t about to replace her. This was purely tactical. Sadly, those things sometimes went over Bizza’s head. “I’m about to set up a new house in Bath. I could use some help.” 

There was distrust in the green eyes studying her, but also hope. “This is not just pity?” 

Really, what was Jo to say to that? ‘I really need a seventeen-year-old to sort out my life’? Instead, she proposed: “How about you come along with me for now, and Jonathan here walks back to find a replacement wheel and tell your family that you will be staying with me?” 

Jonathan brightened. “Capital idea! I don’t need to tell them details, Damia.” 

Damia looked unhappy but agreed.

“Good,” Jo said briskly, turning to usher her into the carriage. “Then let us waste no more time. Mister Kent, I wish you a good journey.” 

The answer was a heartfelt “Thank you, Miss!” and then they were off. 

Damia stayed quiet throughout the carriage, only politely introducing herself by her first name to Bizza, who, Jo noted with some relief, as she had no intention of insulting one of her oldest friends, welcomed her with her usual simple friendliness. 

Upon arrival in Bath—before five o’clock, but it looked like Damia had lost any desire to meet Lady Falcone—Jo was too busy inspecting the house to worry much about the newest addition to their household. It was a small townhouse at one of the more fashionable squares. No luxury, but big enough for her and her entourage to live comfortable and host a party here and then. Most importantly, it was far away from London and the Luthors, who she had been obliged to stay with for the last couple of months. Far better to have her own establishment again, even if Bath wasn’t very fashionable anymore. 

Having ensured that everything was in order and that Artemis was satisfied with the stables, Jo changed for dinner. Then she went and knocked on the door of the room that had been designated as Damia’s for the time being. 

The girl’s light voice called her in. 

“I think it’s time for us to talk,” Jo said.

Damia nodded, looking slightly mutinous. Jo paid that no mind, inspecting her dress critically instead. She herself was not a big follower of fashion, but she could tell that the simple white dress was exquisitely cut. Her estimation of the wealth of Damia’s family rose considerably. 

Knowing she had to tackle this carefully, Jo took a seat on the settee and bade Damia with a gesture to join her so they were side by side, facing each other, knees touching. It was the traditional pose of women taking each other into confidence. Jo hoped that Damia would recognize it and respond accordingly. 

“Now,” she began, “I would like you to tell me your name.” Before Damia could protest again, she explained: “I have no intention of contacting your family or create trouble for you. The opposite, rather. But I do need to know what I’m getting myself into.” 

At least Damia had the good sense to look shamefaced at the reminder that Jo was the one helping her. “It’s Damia Wayne.” 

Jo smiled encouragingly. “Thank you. And why did you run away, Damia?” 

Silence. 

“Does it have anything to do with Jonathan?” Jo hazarded. 

“They want us to marry!” Damia finally wailed. She wasn’t crying, but she looked furious. 

“Oh?” Frankly, that sounded unlikely to Jo. From what she knew about the Waynes, which was very little, they had no need to marry into anyone’s money or family line. Still, she perceived she would need to tread lightly here. 

Not her strongest suit, admittedly. Eh, she would manage well enough to fool a teenager. 

“Richard—my oldest brother—he made a joke about it at first, and then Timothy kept going on about it! He’s been pushing us together, and I’m sure he has convinced Father it would be the right thing to do!” 

“Why?” 

“Because Timothy is an unmitigated ass!” 

Jo’s lips twitched. “Why would your father think it is the right thing to do?” 

“Oh, he and Admiral Kent—Jon’s father—have been friends for ages. They are in similar positions, and our grounds border each other. He must recognize the value such a union would provide, quite apart from sentimental reasons.”

“Have you asked him?” 

“He is away at war. I haven’t seen him in over a year.” 

Oh, dear. The picture Damia painted wasn’t one Jo thought particularly suited for a young girl. Did Damia even have friends her age, apart from Jonathan? Were there women in her life, or just her brothers and an absent father? What she needed, Jo decided, was an introduction to society. Get away from her manor for a bit, find out what she wanted. 

“Then we must write to him and find out what his actual position is. In the meantime, perhaps you would like to stay with me? I have a mind to introduce to some friends with daughters of your age.” 

“Oh, could I? That would be wonderful!” Huh, look at that, Jo thought. With that smile, Damia would have no problem attracting leagues of suitors in the future. Whether she be able to handle that would be a very different question. 

“Good. Then we will inform your family that you will be staying with me for the season.” 

And there went that smile. “I’m sure they will come to drag me back,” Damia said hopelessly. 

Jo just about managed not to turn her eyes heavenward. Oh, the dramatics of youth. If she couldn’t remember what it felt like herself to desperately want some solidarity at that age, she would have been far harsher. 

“They can try,” she told Damia. 

The girl looked at her as if she saw her for the first time, green eyes wide. Jo knew what she saw—a woman past her prime, features way too blunt to be attractive, but tall and confident enough to take it up with any nobleman who wanted to lock up his little sister. Damia evidently agreed, because her face smoothed out with hope. 

Considered her point made, Jo got up. “Then we are in agreement. I will write a letter to your brothers to inform them of our decision, but that is for tomorrow. Dinner is waiting.” 

\-----------

The next morning, they went out to town. Upon inspecting Damia’s wardrobe, Josephina had declared that they would need to do some shopping, and maybe get a few introductions out of the way at the same time.

Damia would never admit it, but she was slightly jealous of Josephina’s built. The other woman looked like she could take on any man and win. She herself, in contrast… sure, she could wrestle down Jonathan, but so could a breeze. If one more person called her built ‘delicate’ and her features ‘cute’ (an inadequate description, for Damia knew fully well that she had inherited her father’s features a bit too closely), she would throttle them. 

She sighed and consoled herself with the thought of her sister Cassandra, who had demonstrated amply that one did not need height to be intimidating. 

“Go look over there,” Josephina directed her, “and see what fabrics you want. We will need to have something tailored, none of this is suitable for young girls.” 

Damia followed her instructions and spent a few minutes aimlessly looking through the swatches. 

“May I help you?” a man asked. 

“I don’t know where to start,” Damia admitted, looking at the fabrics on display. Her oldest brother had always chosen her wardrobe for her, mostly because she had never felt the need to. There must be hundreds of fabrics here, she thought. 

The owner smiled at Damia and told her: “You probably whiten your skin, don’t you, dear? I would suggest darker colors, then, to help that impression.” 

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Josephina’s voice came from behind her. “And I would thank you not to suggest to the girl that she should cover herself in make-up when she has such gorgeous skin. Have a good day, Sir.” 

Before Damia knew what was happening—she was too busy marveling at the flush on the shopkeepers face—she was whisked outside. 

“There’s another shop over there that has been recommended to me,” Josephina told her, walking briskly. “We will acquire all the necessities there, as well as a few gowns. Pale yellows and greens, I think, to bring out the golden tones.” 

“That sounds… nice,” Damia offered. 

Josephina laughed. “I don’t know much about the newest fashions—we will have to trust the dressmaker for that, but I will not have you walk around like an old matron because some crusty ass decides your skin is too dark for him.” 

Damia considered that. She was had been warned by Cassie that English society was rather small-minded and would no doubt treat her heritage as a disadvantage. In fact, that had been another reason she was convinced Father would welcome her marrying Jonathan without having a season, first. 

If Josephina hadn’t interfered, Damia would have yelled at the seller. That, she acknowledged, would not have been nearly as productive as the cutting words Josephina used. She would have to observe further. 

Josephina pulled her out of her thoughts: “Ah, that’s Misses Ducard and her daughter—the very people I was hoping to meet. Try to look a bit less disdainful, will you?” 

Damia resolved to do her best. 

\-----------

Supper brought an unexpected guest. 

“Jonathan Kent? Of course, bring him in,” Jo told her butler. Turning to Bizza in bemusement, she remarked: “It seems I have brought us in quite a menagerie.” 

“Always do.” 

“Oh, shush.” 

“I get Damia, yes?” 

“Thank you, that would probably be good.” 

A few minutes later, a somewhat bedraggled looking Jonathan Kent presented himself to Jo. 

“Miss Todd, I am so sorry to impose on you again.” 

He looked so much like an embarrassed lapdog, Jo couldn’t help but smile at him and say: “Not at all. You—” 

“Jonathan?” Damia stood at the door, astonished. “What are you doing here?” 

“I ran away.” 

“What?” Damia asked, at the same time as Jo followed with: “Why?” 

Jonathan squared his shoulders in remembered outrage. “I told them what happened—that you stole out in the early morning hours trying to catch the post coach, and that I woke up and heard you—but they didn’t believe me. In fact, they accused me of planning everything with you!”

“What?” Damia cried. “But you were the one talking my ear off the whole time and trying to get me to turn back!” 

“I know! It’s—it’s infamous!” Jonathan looked so betrayed, Jo couldn’t help but feel for him despite her amusement. 

Those big blue eyes were turned onto her. “So you see why I couldn’t stay and listen to their accusations, don’t you, Miss Todd?” 

“I do,” she agreed. Really, did these people have no experience in handling teenagers? Jo would have done far worse things than run away to Bath when she was at that age. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” 

“I posted up at the King George hotel. My allowance… well, I didn’t spend much of it this quarter, so I should be fine for some time.” 

“Very good.” The King George was a respectable, but not too expensive hotel favored by young gentlemen. Jo thought he should be quite safe there.

He turned to Damia. “I brought some of your things, by the by. Your art supplies and such. They are downstairs.” 

She grinned at him. “Thank you.” 

Jo watched in amusement as Jonathan actually blushed at that, then cleared her throat. “Well, I’m sure that I don’t need to tell you that you are a welcome visitor here.”

The butler appeared as if on cue. He had likely been waiting right behind the door. Her household was so nosy…

“Could we lay another plate for supper—if Cook doesn’t mind?” 

“I will inquire, Ma’am, but I should think it presents no problem.” 

“Thank you.” 

Minutes later, Jonathan was seated next to Damia at their dining table. He still looked downcast, so Jo asked Damia to tell him about their day.

She herself listened only with half an ear to Damia’s recounting of her adventures. After some reluctance (or, perhaps, shyness—it was difficult to tell with Damia), she and Maya had gotten along famously. Jo was already resigning herself to weeks of “Maya said…”. Hopefully, it would be worth it. Misses Ducard was used to having young people around and would provide excellent supervision, as well as some peace and quiet for Jo. 

One day in and she was already planning how to escape her charge. This was going swimmingly. 

“And tonight, her mother will take us and some of her other friends to the theatre,” Damia said.

“Bizza will go with you, of course,” Jo added, mindful of her duties as a chaperone. “Why not make it a party and take Jonathan, too?” 

Damia looked like she wanted to object, but she must have seen the excitement blooming on Jonathan’s face, for she grudgingly answered: “Why not?” 

The rest of dinner passed in pleasant conversation about the theatre. There was some humdrum about Damia not finding proper clothes, after, as her new clothes would nor arrive for another day or two, but that was solved when it was revealed that Jonathan had had her dama at home pack her best clothing. 

When they had finally left, Jo breathed a sigh of relief and settled into her favorite chair in the parlor. She really hoped those two could cease their bickering enough to make the evening somewhat enjoyable for Bizza and poor Misses Ducard. Well, it was not Jo’s problem. There was a novel that had been calling out to her for days, and Jo was intent on getting a good start tonight. 

It was therefore with complete dismay that she greeted her butler’s announcement that a “Mister Timothy Drake who says he is Damia’s brother” would like to have a word. 

“Tell him I’m not at home,” she snapped, more harshly than she would have liked. 

“I was afraid of that,” a voice sounded from the hallway, “so I took the liberty of following your excellent butler.” 

Jo almost forgot herself and gaped at the man that was now standing in her parlor, looking completely unapologetic. Who did this ass think he was? 

Getting up with a sigh, trying to gather her composure, she remarked coldly: “Well, I suppose it cannot be helped. Come in, Mister Drake.”

He wasted no time. As soon as the door closed behind the butler’s disapproving face, he said: “I am here about Damia.” 

Trying to disarm him, she smiled. “You are her brother, but have a different name?” 

“We are not related by blood,” Drake explained stiffly. 

“Really? You are nearly the same height and stature, so I thought…” 

In truth, Drake appeared just as good in shape as his sister, if the muscles on his thighs and calves, visible through those breeches, were anything to judge by. His face was handsome, no doubt about that, and his blue eyes were glinting at her. It was just, well, he also just barely reached her shoulder. 

She should have remembered that he had siblings. The insult didn’t faze him at all. “Our father took me in as a ward,” he explained simply, bringing the conversation back to a factual level. “Not that that changes the fact that I am one of her legal guardians in our father’s absence, and _you_ are not.”

Great, and now _she_ was the one feeling rotten for attacking his appearance using conventional beauty standards. Jo disliked him immensely already. 

“And I have no intention to be one,” she told him. 

“One might think differently, considering the way you have taken her into your home.” 

“Then one needs to start thinking, period. What Damia needs is an introduction to society outside of her family and neighbors.” 

“She will have her first season next summer. Our father’s cousin, Lady Kane, has agreed to bring her out.”

“And I have no intention of speeding that up. She is too young for the ballrooms. But surely you cannot want her to be one of these damsels that either gets tongue-tied at suddenly being one of the adults or, far more likely with Damia and infinitely worse, gets pert with the first man that approaches?” 

From his grimace, she knew that he agreed with her. But of course the man wouldn’t admit it to it, oh no. “And what would you know of it?” 

Jo’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me?” 

“As far as I have ascertained, you yourself have weathered many seasons without entering matrimony,” he said. “What wisdom about angling a man would you have to impart on my sister?” 

“‘Angling a man’?” she repeated incredulously. “Do you live in the Middle Ages, man? I was wondering how Damia got the impression she was to be married off against her will, but I understand now.” 

To her surprise, he flushed at that. “I own that I might have taken my teasing too far.” 

“Very likely. You ought to have known that teenagers are apt to take everything overly serious. A small joke can result in their world ending.”

“Don’t I know it.” He sighed, and for a second, Jo felt something like solidarity with him. It fled the moment he continued. “Still, you cannot fault this family for finding the entire situation highly suspicious.” 

“And pray tell, what is there to be suspicious about? What diabolical plan could I have for Damia?” 

“She is the heiress of a fortune,” Drake pointed out. 

Oh, please. That was just weak. “A fortune that will go to her upon her majority, which is far off, or her marriage, which, hopefully, is even farther off. If you have made inquiries, you know that I am well off myself. What in the world would possess me to pick up your sister under circumstances I could not have possibly foreseen on the slim chance that I might defraud her in some far-off future?”

That seemed to rob him of some ammunition, but not all. “It is still improper. You are, you must admit, not a suitable chaperone.” 

“I am twenty-nine,” Jo reminded him. “I am well on my way to being an old maid. I cannot see why my supervision would be improper.” 

“An old maid!” He snorted. “Are you playing coy?” 

“I am very aware that I, as you so nicely phrased it, ‘have weathered many seasons,’” Jo told him coldly. “I have no need to flatter myself.”

Drake stared at her for a long second, then threw his hands in the air. “I cannot conceive of it!” 

“Of what?” 

“How are you not married?” 

“Some of us, Mister Drake, value our independence.” 

“And yet you take in my sister?” 

“For a month or so, and only to teach her what her family has failed to.” 

Drake visibly swallowed down a sharp retort. “I still think it is not proper. You are far too young and beautiful to act as a chaperone.” 

What an exasperating man! “As improper as you storming into my parlor without anyone else present?” 

Drake’s eyes widened. “I—” 

But Jo had gained steam now. “Pray, do remove yourself from this house, if it is my _honor_ you are so worried about.”

“Fine,” he said. “Then you will do me the honor of visiting me at my club with Damia tomorrow for supper.” 

“I will do no such thing.” 

“To discuss Damia’s future. Surely we can all get together like rational people?”

What was he implying now? That she wasn’t rational when he was the one who had been spouting nonsense the entire time? “Certainly.”

“Good. I will see you at six o’clock at White’s, then. Have a good evening, Miss Todd.” With that, he bowed and left the room without waiting for her to call on someone to escort him out. 

Exasperated, Jo sat back down by the fire, novel forgotten. If she ever met Mister Bruce Wayne, she would have words with him about the way he raised his children—or, more accurately, didn’t.

\-----------

Damia was behaving herself well. That was the first thing that tipped Tim off this evening was not going to go how he wanted it to be. She even curtsied when she greeted him, the little brat. 

Miss Todd, of course, did no such thing. Instead, she held out a hand. The press of her fingers was as firm as he had expected, but she seemed to have no need to squeeze too firmly. (Tim considered for a second what possibilities there lay in her hands being larger than this, then pushed the thought firmly away. He would come back to that later.) 

“Miss Todd, thank you for coming.” Tim ignored Damia. 

“Thank you for the invitation.” Miss Todd said. She didn’t seem discomfited at all to be in a men’s club. 

Tim gestured to a door. “I have ordered dinner for the three of us.” 

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” 

“Oh, but it’s all prepared. Surely the discussion can wait that long?” He smiled broadly at her. 

Clearly discomfited, she nodded. When he offered her his arm, however, she tilted her head toward Damia. “Surely, the honor belongs to your sister.” 

“I don’t care about Damia,” he told her bluntly. 

“Hey!” Ha, that finally got a rise out of his sister.

For a moment, Miss Todd looked amused. “I suppose I am the senior person here.” 

“Not the way I would phrase it, but if it gets me your arm, I will accept it.” 

The amusement faded into wariness as she took the arm he was offering her. Tim strongly suspected that she was used to her height being intimidating to men and didn’t realize at all how attractive it was.

At first, dinner was a quiet affair. With growing disbelief, Tim watched how Damia correctly chose her utensils and ate her food in dainty bites. At home, she tended to wolf down what food she approved off and ignore what she didn’t. He had ordered a mostly vegetarian meal to accommodate her preferences, but she even sipped on some beef broth! 

And the way she simpered at Miss Todd! It was all ‘yes, Josephina’ and ‘of course, Josephina,’ while she was utterly ignoring Tim. 

…it made for a peaceful evening, though, which was about all one could ask for when it came to Damia. Eventually, Tim asked her about her evening at the theatre. It took some prompting from Miss Todd, but finally, she managed to give a summary of what she’d seen last night. Tim kept the conversation going by sharing some of his experiences in London, to which Miss Todd added her own. 

Listening to her, Tim realized that she and he had traversed in much the same circles. How had he never met her before? Granted, he spent half his time at Wayne Manor with his constituency, but they had even visited the same sporting events. And what on Earth had driven her to come to Bath? It couldn’t have been her health, she was clearly blooming. 

When the table was cleared, Tim knew he couldn’t prolong the peace any longer. “What are your plans for Damia’s stay, exactly?” 

He could see his sister’s eyes light up at the implication that she would be able to stay. The look that Miss Todd shot her, however, kept her from speaking. (He would give a lot to be able to do that.) 

“Damia has already made friends,” Miss Todd told him. “I intend to take her along to several outings—age-appropriate, of course—and appropriate parties. Prepare her for her season and show her what is expected of a woman at the different stages, be it debutante, wife, chaperone or hostess—though if she chooses to follow that, I will have no hand in deciding.” 

“What, are you going to throw a party for her?” he asked thoughtlessly. 

She drew herself up. “Maybe I will.” 

What an infuriating woman. Tim hadn’t been this entertained in years. “Oh?” 

“A small affair, of course, with little to no dancing… but dinner, music, and games for young people.” Miss Todd was visibly warming to the idea. “Fifty people, maybe.” 

Damia, next to her, looked both excited and a little scared. Tim considered her. He could put a halt to all of this. Contrary to what they seemed to think, he did have the power and right to drag Damia back to Wayne Manor and wasn’t afraid of her disapproval. 

But then he would lose the opportunity to have these delightful sparring sessions with Miss Todd. Having now met her twice, Tim was convinced he would never tire of them. It hadn’t just been a spell of a meeting by the fireplace, as he had thought at first. He wanted to spend as much time with her as possible. 

Besides. She might have a point about them not letting Damia out enough. At her age, Tim had already been a regular traveler to London, even if those visits had been more business than pleasure. 

“If that is so, I would be delighted to be invited,” he answered belatedly. Was it rude to invite himself? Yes. Would she be able to refuse? No.

“The delight is all mine,” she told him through gritted teeth as she evidently realized the same thing. “I will let you know the date and time. Are you staying in Bath long, then?” 

Tim looked Damia straight in the eye. “Of course. I need to keep an eye on my baby sister, even if she is in your,” he paused, “capable hands.” 

Damia looked dismayed but decided to stick to her plan and stay quiet. Miss Todd, however, surprised him by smiling compassionately. “I do hope you don’t find Bath too boring. It’s not anything like what you’re used to, I’m afraid.” 

For a second, Tim was thrown. What ever did she mean? Then—oh, she looked him up, then? Asked about him, maybe? While that was gratifying, at times like these he regretted the facade of laddishness a politician like him had to occasionally affect. “I’m sure the rest will do me good. Besides, I cannot imagine any town being boring if it has you in it.” 

She took that in her stride. “In that case, you should definitely partake in the waters. I heard they do wonders for the constitution.” 

Tim had heard from three different people how disgusting they were, but he nodded, anyway. “Thank you for the recommendation.” 

She pushed back her seat without waiting for him to get up first. Of course, Damia followed her example promptly, so Tim had no choice but to get up, too, if he didn’t want to look like a buffoon. 

“If that is all, Mister Drake,” Miss Todd said, “we will take our leave now. Thank you for an excellent meal, and have a good evening.” With that, they were gone.

Tim stared after them, a smile spreading on his face. This evening had not gone how he planned it, no. He thought it had been far better. 

\-----------

Lady Jersey’s eyes followed Damia around the room. “A girl that knows how to carry herself,” she said approvingly. “It’s a pleasure to have her.” 

Jo smiled gratefully. Lady Jersey was, as she had told Damia, the most important person in Bath to convince of her worth. An invitation to a party of Lady Jersey’s meant instant acceptance. “She is young, but I think there is definite potential there.” 

“I hear her brother is in town?” 

Of course. It had been four days since that dinner at White’s. _Of course_ she knew the Honourable Timothy Drake was making a pest out of himself. If Lady Jersey knew, everyone did. She wasn’t nicknamed ‘The Silence’ for nothing. 

“Just another rich boy,” Jo said airily. “Not very interesting.” 

At that exact moment, Lady Jersey looked over her shoulder, as if… she was making eye contact with someone. With a feeling of dread, Jo took a step aside, allowing Tim Drake to step up beside her.

“Lady Jersey?” he bowed, very properly addressing her first. “You don’t know me. I have met your husband on several occasions, though, and he has always spoken very highly of you. Timothy Drake, at your service.” 

Lady Jersey laughed. “Now that is a very polite lie, but we will let it stand. I gather you already met Miss Josephina Todd?” 

Drake finally looked at Jo. “Yes.”

He must have heard her, Jo realized, guilt shooting through her like hot iron. 

His face seemed perfectly blank. However, his eyes were dimmed, somehow, not as sparkling as they had been during their previous arguments. 

Damn it all. She hadn’t meant to make him _sad_. 

There was nothing she could do about it now. He was chatting amicably to Lady Jersey for a few minutes before taking his leave, and then the lady whisked Jo off to meet other guests: “Unusually many visitors for this time of the year, m’dear. We can count ourselves lucky to have anyone under thirty and over eighteen winter here, most days, and now—first yourself, such a bright spot, and then the Waynes, and—oh, I’m sure your party will be a complete success. Let me just introduce you to—”

Jo gave a mental whistle. Now, _that_ was a group that lifted the average attractiveness of this gathering into high heaven. Damia was still absent from her side—likely to speak to Maya, who Jo had spotted earlier—which was a pity, for she would have enjoyed it, Jo thought. 

Lady Jersey turned to an elegant man with striking blue eyes who looked to be in his early thirties. “Mister Grayson, may I introduce to you Miss Josephina Todd?” 

“A pleasure to meet you.” He gave an elegant bow. “My name is Dick Grayson, and these are Duke Thomas and Cassandra Brown.” 

“Nice to meet you. What brings you to Bath?” It was meant to be a simple, polite question, but a wave of amusement went through the group. 

“Our brother wrote to us in way that has made us believe that—” Grayson seemed to have lost himself in that sentence, so Thomas took over for him: “He met the woman he wants to marry, and he’s trying to persuade her to agree.” 

They looked like they were smiling at a joke only they understood. As curious as she was, Jo could already see the vultures hovering around them and no desire to be caught up in that. She merely said: “I wish him luck, then.” 

For some reason, that seemed to amuse them even more. “Thank you, Miss Todd. We will be sure to pass it on.” 

Jo took her leave and walked over to the refreshments. She was starving and had no intention of eating while chatting to anyone, much less these terrifyingly elegant people. 

When Damia joined her from wherever she had vanished to, Jo told her: “You should have stayed at my side while Lady Jersey made introductions. Don’t just run away when you don’t want to talk to people. It won’t work forever. Smile, say hello, then exclaim about having seen this very important friend.” 

Damia agreed more or less convincingly, then asked: “What did they say?” 

“They were very nice and made perfectly polite conversation, unlike _someone_ I could think of.” 

Jo watched as Damia’s shoulders slumped in relief. Alright, she had been willing to ignore the strangeness, but this went too far. Before she could interrogate Damia, however, the girl indicated with a movement of her head that someone was standing behind Jo. (It seemed to be the day for that.)

Jo turned around and was greeted by a familiar head of red hair, as always left bare by wig or hat.

“Roy!” she exclaimed. “What brings you to Bath?” 

He grinned at her. “Is the pleasure of your company not enough?” 

If they were in private, she would’ve whacked him for that. She knew perfectly well that there was only one thing, or rather person, that would’ve caused him to leave the ammunition grounds he so dearly loved to tinker in. He must be up here on army business. 

“This is Damia Wayne,” she said instead. “She has been staying with me. Damia, this is Colonel Roy Harper, an old friend.”

Damia did a very pretty curtsy, and oh, was that a blush? Jo was gladder than ever that she had persuaded Damia to leave off the powder and creams. Those reactions were precious, softening the haughty bearing she had been trying to affect the beginning of this endeavor. 

Roy smiled at her, probably thinking the same thing. “Hello, Damia. Would you like to dance?”

Damia looked like she was about to agree enthusiastically, but remembered at the last moment to look to Jo. (Jo wondered how long that phase would last. She gave it about two weeks before Damia would go all rebellious on her, too.) “May I?” 

Jo considered it. On the one hand, handsome but poor military men and impressionable young girls were rarely a good combination. On the other hand, that kind of crush would invariably happen, and Roy was the best possible choice. She could trust him not to take advantage. 

“Of course. Just no waltz, Damia.” It might slowly enter the last bastions of high society, but she highly doubted that the Bath matrons would think it proper for a girl that was not yet out. 

Roy smiled at her knowingly as he whisked Damia away. 

Jo, now without a conversation partner, was content to stand there and watch them for a few minutes. These parties were so draining; the quiet felt like a blessing. And they were dancing very prettily. Jo knew from experience that Roy was a capable partner, but Damia was holding her own. 

A good dancer with an even better brain, if the discussion they’d been able to have over the last week were anything to go by. Damia was well-read for her age (or, to be truthful, well-read for any age) and picked up books from Jo’s shelves at an alarming rate. Give her some time and real confidence, not pride, and she would be a force to be reckoned with. 

“A pretty picture.” 

This time Jo couldn’t help her flinch at the sound of Drake’s voice. She hadn’t even heard him approach. Again. It was like he could remove his presence at will; a skill she had never possessed. Jo would be noticed in whatever room she passed through if she wanted to be or not. 

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. An apology for earlier was undoubtedly indicated. Before she could, however, he asked in a tone that was too casual to be true: “You know Colonel Harper?”

Well, that was certainly a more preferable topic than her earlier misstep. Still she instinctively bristled and asked right back: “What’s the problem with Roy—Colonel Harper?” 

“I have heard things.” 

Jo lifted an eyebrow in the archest way she knew. “You listen to gossip?” 

“When it comes from my own brother, yes.” He did suddenly look uncertain, though.

“Then it _must_ be so,” Jo said sarcastically. “Anyway, you need not worry about his intentions toward Damia. He would never move beyond a harmless flirt with her.” 

“It’s not Damia I’m worried about.” 

She stared at him. Did he mean—certainly not? Either way, what impertinence. “Then you have nothing to say about it.” 

Drake looked immensely frustrated at the reminder. “I’m just saying, I have some experience—”

“I was under the impression that you are younger than me,” she interrupted, tired of the topic already. 

“Four years, yes. I’m clearly a veritable infant.” 

“You are certainly behaving like one.” And here she had felt bad about her comments a mere ten minutes ago! 

For some reason, that made him smile. “Will you do this infant the honor of the next dance, then?” 

Jo hesitated. 

“You don’t have to,” he added. Perversely, that show of understanding was what convinced Jo that yes, she had to, and she took his arm. 

The first dance was a disaster. 

“Will you just lead?” Jo finally snapped. 

He glared back. “You’re being stubborn and stiff.” 

“Not up to the challenge, are you?” 

His hands in hers tightened, and the next turn was executed with sharpness if a bit forcefully. It looked like it cost him considerable effort to steer her like this. (Alright, so Jo had heard before that she wasn’t the easiest person to guide. Not that she was about to tell him that.) 

She sniffed. “There. Was that so difficult?” 

Jo would treasure the memory of his annoyed face for days to come. 

\-----------

It was good to get out of the town for a while. 

As much Jon enjoyed the attractions of Bath (dancing! The theatre! Low-stakes gambling!), he had missed the countryside more than he’d expected. Today’s ride to Castle Combe was a welcome change of pace. Damia had drawn ahead to chat with Maya, so there was even some quiet for him to enjoy.

As always, he admired her seat. They had both grown up around horses, and though they were keeping a sedate pace appropriate for their companions, he knew Damia could out-gallop the best of them.

Maybe they should leave their home town more often in the future. He had always thought that Damia would be a capital girl to travel with. She was afraid of nothing, and people always seemed to do what she wanted. 

Jon considered with dread Damia’s first season next year. She was so cute, everyone would be after her. He figured that yes, she might have all the social graces down thanks to Miss Josephina’s teachings, but no man would properly appreciate her spitfire ways. Damia could be acidic if she wanted to be. Jon was already mentally preparing to fight for her honor when they called her mean. Damia wasn’t mean. She was funny and honest, and yes, alright, a little mean, but Jon liked that about her. 

Then again, Damia would be spitting mad if he fought a duel, so maybe not. 

“What’s got you woolgathering?” 

Startled, Jon looked up. He smiled when he saw that Miss Josephina had drawn up beside him. “Sorry, Miss Josephina, just thinking.” 

She winced. “I cannot convince you to call me Jo, can I?” 

Jon shook his head, smiling brightly. His mother would already chide him for using her first name at all, he knew. “Damia calls you that,” he pointed out brightly. 

“Only when she wants to annoy her brother.” 

“He deserves it,” Jon said loyally. He had no problems himself with Tim, but he knew how much the older man liked to get Damia’s goat. 

Miss Josephina chuckled. “Maybe. Is your horse to your liking?” 

“He’s great.” Jon patted the gelding’s neck in appreciation. “Thank you for lending us your horses.” Truth be told, he had gone into raptures when he first saw the stable Miss Josephina’s kept. It might be a tad unusual to employ a female groomsman. Considering how healthy and energetic the animals looked, though, Jon considered Miss Artemis his new hero. 

“Of course.” She winked at him. “Would you like to have a little race? I’ve been dying to give Redwing his head.” 

Her charger was almost as big as his fathers, so he knew he would have no chance, but Jon agreed, anyway. The road was broad and empty, perfect for a sprint. 

Miss Josephina smiled mischievously. “First at the fence wins!” she called out and was off within seconds. 

Laughing, Jon gave chase, knowing that Damia would join them within seconds on her own mare. Grinning like she did at home, sharp and competitive, none of that polite smile she affected these days.

Yes. A day out of town was just what they’d needed.

\-----------

Four days before her party, Jo dropped Damia off at the watering rooms for her daily dose of socializing. She herself visited the library first, intending on supplying herself with new material for the evenings.

To her surprise, she saw Drake sitting at one of the writing desks, several books open on the table before him. He looked deeply engrossed in whatever he was writing. 

Trying to copy what he had done to her at Lady Jersey’s party, she crept closer, hoping not to alert him to her presence. The books in front of him turned out to be legal tomes, as well as one treatize about workhouses. 

“Bastards.” 

For a second, Jo thought he’d finally noticed her—but no, he was murmuring to himself as he wrote. 

“You’d think they never met a poor person in their life,” he muttered. “Or a woman, for that matter. Probably haven’t. What daft—!”

Smiling to herself, she let him be. Her apology could wait a bit longer. 

Once she had checked out her books, she returned to the watering rooms. Damia, who had been chatting to Maya, immediately came over to her and told her, just a bit too casually: “I saw Colonel Harper again. He told me about his inventions.” 

“Did he?” 

“Yes. Oh, and I invited him to your party.”

Jo stopped in her tracks. “What?” 

Damia blinked at her. “You said I could invite people I liked, so I invited him.” 

Inwardly, Jo groaned. She had said that. Trying to uninvite him now would only persuade the girl Jo was trying to control her as her brothers had, even if Roy wouldn’t mind. 

Not that Roy was a bad person to have at any party. It would look bad to have Damia invite him, was all, and Drake wouldn’t like it. (And when had his opinion begun to matter, huh?) 

It was a party aimed at young people, though. Roy would be bored out of his mind within the hour. Jo resolved to just ignore the issue and smiled at Damia. “True. Is there anyone else you were thinking of?” 

“Colin Wilkes.” 

This time, Jo nodded in full-hearted approval. “Of course.” 

Damia smiled in noticeable relief. “I’ll go ask him then.” 

“Go ahead.” Jo waved her off. From the corner of her eyes, she spotted Drake approaching. At least this time, she was warned. 

He didn’t bother with any formalities, just asked: “Are you still encouraging my sister to make the acquaintance of men our father would likely deem unsuitable?” 

“Having never met your father, I have no means of guessing what his exacting standards might be, and little interest in doing so.” 

“You cannot expect him to welcome fortune hunters vying for his daughter.” 

“Of which there are none around.” If Roy had been a fortune hunter, he’d have married Kori ages ago, and young Colin was the furthest thing from predatory. “Besides, I should think that the wealth of her husband wouldn’t matter much to her.” 

“She has enough means to keep anyone comfortable. It’s just that I find men don’t like to be reminded it’s their wife that brought in the money.” 

“While a woman marrying a rich man is expected to congratulate herself, I suppose.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “You would encourage Damia to throw away her fortune and marry someone penniless, then?” 

She laughed, caught. “No, you’re right, I wouldn’t. There is a difference, however, between being poor and being reasonably well-off, but not rich.”

“True,” he acknowledged, “and I do own that other things are more important than marrying a rich boy. Damia might become bored, and what a terror that would be.”

Drake clearly expected her to keep arguing with him, but all it accomplished was remind her of her original purpose for seeking him out earlier. She would not allow herself to be a coward again.

“I apologize for what I said last time we met.” Jo made herself look into his eyes as she spoke. “Not only was I rude and unkind, but I was also wrong.” 

He looked taken aback. “There’s no need—” 

“There is.” 

There was a pause. It seemed neither of them knew what to say now. 

Finally, Jo, trying to keep her voice light, asked: “I saw you in the library earlier. What had you so spellbound?” 

He flushed. “My apologies, I did not mean to ignore you. It was just an issue related to my work.” 

“Oh?” 

“There is some discussion of banning women from the workhouses.” Drake sounded tired at the thought alone. “Apparently, the mere existence of the place incentivizes women to leave their homes and engage in improper activities.” 

“What nonsense.” Then, in a burst of confidentiality she couldn’t explain herself, she added: “I was born in a workhouse. If they hadn’t existed…” Her mother would never have survived long enough to meet and marry her step-father, a cloth merchant that had made good and had a heart big enough for the two of them. 

If Drake was surprised at her revelation, he didn’t show it, just agreed. “Exactly. It’s shortsighted and cruel. Not that the workhouses are perfect, by any means, but…” 

Jo nodded. They were better than nothing. “Will the law pass?” 

“I don’t think so—but it will be a close thing,” Drake admitted. “I have already written to the speaker and our chief whip with some legal objections, as well as moral ones. Cobblepot is behind the bill, though.” 

“A snake if there ever was one.” Too late Jo remembered that she was talking to a member of Cobblepot’s party. 

Drake seemed to agree with her, though. “An influential one, at that.” 

“Sionis and White are standing with him, I suppose?” Jo had never been an active political participant—she knew her influence would always be limited by her gender and the circumstances that had propelled her into peerage—but she had kept an open ear for the political gossip that had surrounded the Luthors.

“Indeed.” There was a new respect in Drake’s eyes. “If they manage to get Dent on board, I’m afraid they have a chance. He has always been a moralist.”

“Easy to be, if you are able to keep your mistress in a separate establishment.” 

They looked at each other in perfect understanding. 

“Miss Todd!” Lady Jersey called out. “I simply must ask you—”

Jo turned to speak with her, and Drake walked over to a handsome military man he was clearly familiar with. The spell was broken. 

\-----------

A new arrival to the rooms was watching the scene with amusement. 

So this was Miss Josephina Todd, huh? She was certainly striking. Not that looks counted much with his friend. Conner studied the two of them. It was very unlike Tim to be this… this… _infatuated_ with anyone. Usually, his friend was on the cautious side. One might even say _too_ cautious.

He looked at ease with Miss Todd, though. His face was more animated than Conner had seen in a while. Even while the two had argued, they visibly enjoyed themselves. Not to mention—his best friend, the most observant person Conner knew, had failed to notice him standing less than twenty feet away. 

Conner decided on the spot that he approved of Miss Todd. This was going to be endlessly entertaining. 

Finally, the two of them were interrupted by a middle-aged lady. Tim, like waking from a spell, looked around for the first time in a good ten minutes. Noticing Conner, he came up to him and hissed: “Conner! What are you doing here?” 

“Tim,” he chided him gently, “you cannot write to me about meeting ‘a woman unlike any I have met’ and expect me to sit quietly in London.”

His friend’s smile turned rueful. “I suppose not. You will have to get in line, though, my siblings have already claimed the best spots for watching.” 

Conner had thought those three figures leaving the watering rooms as he arrived had looked familiar. “We care about you.” 

“You mean: you think this is hilarious.” 

“That, too.” Conner gentled his voice. “Look, Tim, if you want to be spontaneous for once in your life, I’m going to support you.” 

Tim did actually looked touched at that.

“Conner!” Ah, Jon had finally spotted him. His little brother looked cautious as he approached. “Did father send you?” 

Conner didn’t have the heart to tell him that their father had decided a month in Bath would do Jon some good and had no intention of having him return early. “I’m supposed to make sure Miss Todd hasn’t seduced you.” 

“What? She would never—”

Aww, Jon was so cute when riled. “I’m just teasing, Jonny. I’m here because Tim wants to propose to Miss Todd and needs some moral support.”

Tim groaned. 

His little brother’s eyes widened adorably. “He wants to do _what_?” 

Conner laughed and patted his head consolingly. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.” 

\-----------

The evening of the party finally came. After a day spent taking care of all the last-minute things even such a small event required, Jo was glad to be done with her wardrobe and hear Bizza tell her: “Look good.” 

Jo eyed herself critically in the mirror. The dress was a bit flashy, but she liked its deep red color. “It will do.” 

“Look good,” Bizza repeated firmly. 

Jo smiled at her. “Shall we see if Damia despaired yet?” 

But Damia, to her surprise, looked cool as a cucumber as she met Jo at the top of the stairs. The simple forest green dress looked just as striking as Jo had suspected it would, and the long gloves (Damia’s first time wearing them) highlighted her well-shaped arms. 

“You look stunning,” she told her. 

“You, too.” 

Jo smiled. She knew well that she couldn’t compete, but it was nice on Damia’s part to say so. “Are you ready?” 

Damia squared her shoulders. They had discussed this—Damia would not be expected to play hostess at dinner or for late arrivals, but Jo wanted her to greet the guests with her. It was good to get some early practice in. Jo had seen far too many freshly-married young women completely overwhelmed at the end of their first entertainment. 

Damia, it turned out, did her job admirably. She didn’t exactly exude warmth, but her manners were impeccable. More than ever did Jo wonder at the way Bruce Wayne had raised his children. The two she had met so far seemed to switch between ‘absolute heathens raised in a barn’ and ’born with a silver spoon in their mouth’ effortlessly. 

Speaking of. The Honorable Mister Drake had arrived. 

He looked good, Jo had to admit. Compared to the dandies of London (and those aspiring to those fashionable heights here,) he had dressed positively austerely, with the simplest of cravats and his hair tied back with a small tie. One could not imagine Tim Drake powder his face or agonize over the color of his waistcoat. 

He smiled as he bowed first to Jo, then to Damia. Damia’s greeting was offered through more clenched teeth than the ones the other guests had received, but overall, Jo thought it was the most civil she had seen brother and sister act. 

At least Drake had the good sense to vanish into the crowd after that. Jo didn’t see him again until the last guest had been welcomed and, with the unobtrusive way that Jo had come to realize was typical for him, Drake appeared at her elbow. “Water?”

Jo was parched. She downed the glass in two swigs. “Thank you.” 

They watched in silence as Damia and Jonathan made the rounds, switching between gentle bickering and really rather good social graces. 

“I still think they are going to marry one day,” Drake said. 

Jo sighed. “Yes, more than likely. Just don’t _tell_ them that.” 

He chuckled. “Consider me thoroughly schooled.” 

“Good. Maybe it will stop the next teenager from running off.” 

“Damia is the youngest, so I think we should be safe. Well. Unless our father decides to adopt anyone else.”

“He does that often?” 

“Well, I don’t know about that, but there are five of us.” 

“Five? Good heavens!” And Bruce Wayne unmarried and frequently stationed on the continent. No wonder the ‘children’ were running a bit wild. 

“Not counting my siblings-in-law, of course.” 

“Of course,” Jo agreed weakly. 

“I take it you are an only child, then?” Drake’s eyes were amused.

“I thought you have made inquiries about me? You must know already, or else you really need to find new sources of information.” 

“Well, excuse me for making polite conversation.” 

“Mister Drake, you have not been polite to me once, and I would thank you not to start now.” 

He laughed. “I _did_ pull a chair out for you at our first dinner.” 

“After storming into my parlor and demanding my attendance.” 

“You enjoyed being incensed by that.” 

“I did,” she admitted with a laugh of her own. “Though I would thank you for keeping being polite while I do my duty.” Dinner would be served in ten. There was no standing around and chatting for her anymore. 

“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of ruining this evening for you or Damia.” 

Strangely enough, Jo believed him. 

With the experience of a hostess that had managed her step-father’s parties since her teens, she paired everyone up for dinner with an experienced eye. The only time she had to improvise was when she paired Damia with Duffy because Jonathan had gallantly claimed the arm of a damsel that couldn’t be out of the schoolroom long and had looked utterly lost the whole evening. Jo had intended to sit next to Duffy herself—he was a decent conversationalist and certainly one of the highest-ranking men in attendance—when Roy asked her: “And will you do me the honor, Jo?” 

Looking around, Jo realized that the only people left were Bizza, Drake, Roy, and herself. Rank would dictate that she accompanied Drake and that Roy asked Bizza (who he liked a lot, she knew.) Seeing the mischief in Roy’s eyes, however, she was unable to resist. “I’d love to.” 

To his credit, Drake didn’t complain about taking Bizza. In fact, he showed more gallantry to her than he ever had to Jo, which should have gratified her, but didn’t. 

Once dinner and conversation had started, Roy nudged her gently and murmured: “If he glares at me any harder, I’ll have to fake a heart attack to get out alive.” 

“Who’s glaring?” 

Roy snorted incredulously, drawing the eye of a few guests. “Oh, I don’t know. Pretty boy that has been following you around for weeks now… That ring any bells?” 

Jo studiously kept her gaze on her food. “He’s not a pretty boy.” 

“If you’re about to tell me he’s so much more, I _will_ throw up into this soup.” 

“Don’t you dare. And people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I remember all those terrible sonnets, Roy. ‘To my beauty slender and not-fair…’” 

Roy grinned without a trace of embarrassment. “It worked, didn’t it?” 

“I don’t think she fell for you because of your poetry skills, so no.” 

Jo didn’t have to look at him to know that Roy was wiggling his eyebrows. “What did she fall for, then?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“Ouch. Guess I know which side you would take if it comes to a duel.”

“Why would it—” 

“I think I could take him with the pistols,” Roy continued thoughtfully as if he hadn’t heard her. “He does have a reputation with the rapier, though. Maybe I’ll be a coward and run away instead. My reputation will never survive if someone so pretty beats me.” 

Jo had to laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“Maybe. Just know that if I’m not the bridesmaid at your wedding, I will be deeply hurt.” 

“What are you talking about? There will be no wedding.” 

“Sure, sure. I believe you. All I’m saying is that I have the dress ready.” 

“Uhuh.” 

Which reminds me—has he seen you in riding gear yet? Because I cannot believe he hasn’t proposed once he saw you in trousers.” 

“Roy.” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m this close to throwing soup into your face.” 

“Shutting up now.” 

Jo snorted and turned to the gentleman on her left. The rest of dinner was uneventful. When they re-entered the main room, she was caught up in conversations for a bit. It was only when the band she had hired began to play that she had the occasion to look for Drake again, intending to make up for her snub at dinner by asking him to dance. 

Only… he was nowhere to be seen.

“It seems your brother has left,” she told Damia. 

Damia’s disdain was palpable. “Good.” 

The rest of the evening was pleasant and unremarkable. Jo tried not to be too disappointed by that.

Despite the long night, Jo was up early the next morning, a habit she had never been able to shake. Damia was still asleep by the time the clock chimed ten, which was to be expected. Jo would give her another hour or so. 

The door to the breakfast parlor opened. “Miss Todd, Mister Drake here to see you.” 

Jo lifted a brow. “Did he actually wait outside this time?” 

“He did.” Her butler was much too well-mannered to show his amusement. “Shall I bring him in?” 

“Yes, please.” 

A minute later, he opened the door for Drake, then left them alone. 

Jo rose to greet him. “Mister Drake.” 

“Miss Todd.” 

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Drake spoke. “I am leaving for London immediately.” 

Jo was surprised by the stab for utter disappointment in her chest. After all, she should have seen this coming. Of course he would tire of this—her—eventually. 

“I see,” was all she said.

“Before I do, I wanted to apologize for leaving early yesterday.” Drake was talking quickly, now, as if trying to get it over with. “It was unforgivably rude of me. You have made it clear that your affection lies elsewhere, and I will respect that. Just give me some time.” 

Alright, that made absolutely zero sense. “My affection?” 

“My sources have indicated that Colonel Harper has long been rumored to have been pining after a lady. It seems to me that his affections are requited and that a happy announcement cannot be far off.”

“You are right that Colonel Harper’s affections are requited,” Jo told him briskly, with a faint note of outrage in her voice and completely ignoring his resigned nod. “By _his lady_. He has been engaged to a member of the exiled French nobility for years now, only holding off because he wants to show himself worthy of her or some such nonsense. I would appreciate it if you would keep quiet about that.”

It took Drake a moment to digest that. “So you are not—you’re not going to marry him.” 

“No, and neither is Damia.” 

Drake waved that concern aside like a stray fly. “Your affections are not engaged?” 

“No.” Jo was still confused, or possibly in denial. “What do my affections matter?” 

“A great deal, considering I am trying to ask you to marry me.” 

Jo stared at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t mean that.”

Drake grimaced. “I admit I was going to go for something slightly more romantic. Spontaneity isn’t my strong suit, I apologize. However, I do assure you I mean it.” 

“But—you are rich.” 

“Never in my life,” Drake told her, exasperated, “did I expect my parents’ fortune to be such a hindrance when proposing marriage!” 

She glared at him. “Don’t be daft. You know what I mean.” 

“As you have said yourself, Damia has more than enough family standing and money to carry any marriage. Even if that would be necessary in our case—which it _isn’t_—why can’t you grant me the same?” 

“I would make a terrible politician’s wife.” 

“Oh, yes. A wife that knows her way around society _and _politics, who reads more than I could ever hope to, who has shown herself to be both a good hostess and a clear thinker, unafraid to say what she thinks—I would obviously make a terrible bargain with her.” His voice was biting. 

“I’m not—” 

He raised a hand. “Stop insulting yourself. I won’t agree. Besides, you haven’t said that you don’t want to, yet.” 

“We will argue all the time.” Jo decided to change tack. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” Drake smiled at her. “Aren’t you?” 

…she could imagine it, Jo realized. She could see the two of them, provoking the other’s temper and calming it down again. Drake wouldn’t let her ride roughshod over him but respected her enough to let her call him out in turn. She saw the quiet evenings, too, the two of them discussing the politics of the day or each working on their own projects, content in the other’s silence.

Even more terrifyingly: She wanted that. And that was the one thing Jo did not know to deal with. 

“I—can I have some time?” 

His face fell. 

“That’s not a ‘no,’” she added hastily, “I just—I’ve been independent for a long time, now. I don’t know—and this is a surprise, you have to own.”

“Is it?” Drake asked, humor in his voice. “Of course. Just—” He looked conflicted. “I do have to leave, you know—that wasn’t an excuse. Promise me you will wait until I return to tell me your decision?” 

Jo nodded. She could do that. Could she? Oh, God. Was she really entertaining this—this mad proposal?

As she watched him leave as quietly as he had arrived, she thought: _What have I done?_

\-----------

Damia was due to leave Bath soon, so she was determined to cram as many outings into her last week as possible. It was her return from one such day that had Josephina raising her eyebrows at her as she entered. “I didn’t expect you back so early.”

Damia winced. “Colonel Harper walked me back,” she said, expecting a reprimand. 

Josephina, though, only shook her head with a sigh. “Well, that will give everyone something to gossip about, I suppose. Just don’t do it with anyone less trustworthy, understand?” She turned back to her book without waiting for Damia’s response.

Damia frowned at her. Josephina had been distracted ever since that party. So far, however, she had covered it up with her usual humor and vivacity. 

That was why Damia had cornered Colonel Harper today, in fact. He was an old friend of Josephina’s; he should know what was troubling her. The git had only laughed and told her that Josephina “had some things to consider.” 

Damia didn’t like it. She had a sneaking suspicion that all of this had to do with Timothy somehow, and she liked that even less. For now, she resolved, she would keep an eye out. If it came out that Timothy had hurt Josephina somehow, he was a dead man. 

The next day, Josephina didn’t come down to breakfast. Influenza, the doctor said. A bad bout, it looked like. 

Damia went to her room as soon as she heard. “Here is hot water and some towels,” she said, trying to keep her voice quiet so as not to wake Josephina. “I asked Cook to prepare food she might be able to swallow. Anything else you need?” 

Bizza hesitated. “You should not be—” 

“Nonsense,” Damia told her. “What can I do to help?” 

They took turns sitting up with Jo after that. There wasn’t much they could do except keep her cool and try to coax her into drinking some broth. 

Damia posted a letter to the manor, informing them that there was no question of her leaving when Josephina was ill. If there were a danger of infection, it already would have happened, and Damia didn’t spare it a thought. 

There was no time to worry, after all. Josephina’s fever was getting worse before it could get better. The doctor tried to exude confidence, but privately he warned Bizza that they should expect her to become delirious. (Damia, of course, was listening at the door. People’s notion of what was appropriate for young ears had always been ridiculous, and never more so now.) 

On the third day, Damia sent for Jon.

\-----------

When Tim arrived at the house, he barely paused to hand his exhausted horse to Artemis and thank her before he bounded up the stairs and rang. To his surprise (or maybe not), his sister opened the door to him. “Finally.” 

Tim didn’t waste any time justifying himself. He had left London as soon as Jon had found him and relayed his message. “How is she?” 

“Feverish.”

“Can I see her?” 

“That’s why I sent for you. I don’t know why she would call your name, and I don’t _want _to know,” Damia told him bluntly, “but the doctor said we should keep her agitation to a minimum so. Do something.”

Tim saw the bags underneath her eyes and the exhaustion in her face, and didn’t hold her sharp tone against her. If they had been closer, he might have hugged her; as it was, he merely promised: “I will.” 

She searched his face for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside. “Up the stairs, third door on the right.” 

Tim wasted no time following her directions. He halfway expected to be thrown out again immediately upon entering the room—if him visiting Jo in her parlor was a molehill of a scandal, him going to her bedroom was a mountain. However, her companion, Bizza, looked up and smiled wearily when she saw him. 

Jo was asleep on the bed. Bizza motioned for him to be silent and got up, pointing at the chair next to Jo. As Tim gratefully took her seat, she whispered: “Take care. Get her to drink if can.” 

“I will. Rest a bit.” He kept his voice equally low. 

As soon as the door fell shut, he took Jo’s hand in both of this. Its clamminess told him even more than the pallor of her face how she was doing. Her grip had never been anything but firm; it was unnerving to have her so unresponsive. 

The night was bad. He had known it would be so when Damia had written to him, had been easily able to extrapolate the same from her and Bizza’s tiredness, but he hadn’t been prepared for just how terrifying it would be to see the woman he loved in the grip of fever-induced nightmares.

He couldn’t help but listen to what she was saying. His innate curiosity would never allow anyone else. Combined with his research into her background, he could guess what many of her calls for help meant. However, he was aware that they had not been intended for his ears and swore to himself to keep her confidence. This brave woman had survived so much, she was entitled to her nightmares.

If Daria had thought his presence might calm Jo, it did not seem to be so. Sure, she had called out for him, and he had responded with “I’m here, love, I’m here,” but at no point had she seemed conscious of his presence. It was with a heavy heart that he switched places with his sister in the morning. 

There was no real rest for him, however, and he was back at Jo’s door within a few hours. To his surprise, Damia greeted him with the brightest smile he could remember seeing on her. “The fever broke, I think!” she whispered excitedly. “The doctor was here and said she is over the worst of it, now.” 

\-----------

When Jo woke up, she felt like she had been dragged through the mud by at least three different horses. 

The first time, she barely managed to stay awake long enough to sip some broth and drink a bit of tea before she was out again. In the afternoon, however, some clarity returned. 

“Sorry,” was the first thing she told Bizza. Jo hated being sick. It imposed her care on everyone around her, a thing she had never felt comfortable with. 

“Not sorry, get better.” 

“Aye.” 

Her companion and friend nodded. “Food.” 

“Any chance of cleaning up?” Jo asked hopefully. She did not feel strong yet by any means, but she would feel much happier if she could at least be clean again.

“Damia help.” 

To Jo’s surprise, the girl was more than willing to do that. Jo hadn’t thought her the type to fuss, but there was no other word to call the way Damia took her arm and hovered around her until she had made it back to bed. Sure, she didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t necessary. Those green eyes were more expressive than Damia probably realized.

“Mister Drake has been waiting outside the door for an hour, now.” Her butler informed her as he set down the tray with soup. “Would you like me to call him in?” 

Oh. Jo swallowed. So she hadn’t dreamt that? He was here?

“Eat first,” Bizza said. “Distraction.”

Jo grabbed the spoon and began to eat her porridge mechanically. When her stomach began to protest, she pushed the tray away and said: “Alright. Let him in.” 

When Bizza opened the door, she regretted her words. Even after washing up and Damia changing the bedsheets, she still felt sweaty and gross. Her hair must resemble a bird’s nest, and it was easily the least put together she had ever been in his presence. Surely he could not wish to see that? 

But when Drake entered, he smiled as if she was a fairy-tale princess dancing in a magic dress. As he sat down next to her, his eyes never leaving her face, she thought: _Oh. Guess I know, then._

Their eyes caught, held. Dimly, she noted that Bizza and Damia had left the room, a show of trust she would have thought impossible a week ago. 

“How are you?” Drake took her hand. Jo didn’t question it; it felt right. 

“Haven’t been sick in years,” she managed to rasp out. “Suppose I was due.”

“Well, don’t do it again.” There was a twitch in the corner of his mouth that told her he knew how ridiculous he sounded, but his blue eyes were serious. 

In lieu of an answer, she squeezed his hand. That brought the smile back to his face. “You should rest. I have strict orders from Damia not to upset you.”

He would not ask, Jo realized. Maybe he thought it inadvisable to pester her in her weakened state, or perhaps he wanted to give her the time she had asked for. He seemed content to wait. 

Well. Jo wasn’t. 

“So about that proposal.” (Wasn’t she smooth?) 

All of a sudden, his face was the picture of caution warring with hope. “Yes?” 

“We will argue terribly,” Jo told him severely, “and you are not allowed to take it back. Also, you should call me by my first name. We are not _that_ old-fashioned.”

“That’s a yes, then?” he asked, lighting up. 

“If you’re sure you wouldn’t rather marry someone like the beautiful Cassandra Brown?” she joked weakly. 

To her surprise, Tim grimaced at that. “I love you, but please don’t suggest I marry my sister again.” 

“Your _sister_?” 

“Yes? She came here with Dick and Duke to… keep an eye on the situation. We’re a nosy bunch, I’m afraid.” 

Dick...? Oh. Richard Grayson. Duke Thomas. 

Jo sank back into her pillows and groaned. Right. Five incredibly handsome siblings, most of them adopted, plus siblings-in-law. And their father, the famous Bruce Wayne. With his best friend, war hero Clark Kent. All of whom she would have to meet. 

“…how do you feel about an elopement?” 

\-----------

It took another week for Damia to be convinced she could take her leave of Josephina with a good conscience. It helped, of course, that Timothy had stayed near the entire time. He might have stopped teasing her so much, but his insufferable smugness at Jo agreeing to marry him was almost worse. 

He _should_ be pleased. Josephina was clearly too good for him, as happy as Damia was to have her become a part of her family. She couldn’t wait for Father to come home and meet her. It was going to be explosive.

If Josephina and Timothy thought they could just elope, they were delusional. Damia was going to be bridesmaid, and she was prepared to fight Colonel Harper for it. 

“Ready?” Jon interrupted her thoughts. Damia looked up. He was holding the door to the carriage open for her. 

At least he’d gotten a good one this time. Then again, Damia supposed she owed him for that broken wheel. 

“Ready,” she said. “Let’s go home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus: 
> 
> Bruce stared down at the letters in his hand. One was from Damia, telling him in no uncertain terms that she was not going to marry Jonathan Kent. Which. Fine? She was way too young to marry, anyway.
> 
> The other missive was from Tim. ‘Dear Bruce,’ it read. ‘I would hereby like to inform you that I intend to marry Miss Josephina Todd.’ Bruce had no earthly idea who that was. ‘She has not agreed to do so yet, and indeed might never, but I’m aware you acquire advance warning. It would be nice if you could make it back for the wedding.’
> 
> Bruce frowned. Maybe it was time to pay his children a visit.


End file.
